


The Golden Scar

by plumedy



Category: Original Work, The Guardiansverse - Umbralpilot
Genre: Diaspora, Eating Disorders, Food, Friendship, Gen, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24523234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: Saul makes an ill-advised purchase at the city market.[This is a fanfic ofUmbralpilot's beautiful Guardians universe, specifically ofThe Soldier's Apprentice.]
Relationships: Saul Samaren & Festus Detrich, Saul Samaren & Mia Weber
Kudos: 1





	The Golden Scar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Umbralpilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbralpilot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Soldier's Apprentice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517767) by [Umbralpilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbralpilot/pseuds/Umbralpilot). 



> <3

Detrich saw with two sights – his own and that of the thing greater than he. Saul wondered sometimes, idly, about what he looked like in that other sight. Was he simply an absence? A void, a black wound in the shimmering web?  
  
Could Detrich sense him – if he tried – moving through the crowd of Hyemi commoners, like a dead man walking among the living?  
  
Or perhaps the thing at the core of him wasn’t darkness. Perhaps it was a burst of light, hot and bright as the Ilyigan sun, and rather than creating a void, it burned a golden scar into the soul-matter of Hyem.  
  
Mostly these considerations were rather abstract to him. Either way, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach and the resigned longing in his heart stayed the same.  
  
Today, however, was different.  
  
Saul had spotted him from afar – a tall freckled man with a shock of brassy hair. There was nothing remarkable about the man himself except, perhaps, his towering height; but the goods he was selling had attracted Saul’s interest. Fruit, and something else – little baked things heaped with soft purple stuffing.  
  
Cheese, herbs, and wild plums. He’d recognized it by scent, sharp in the bitter wintry air, before he could see the source.  
  
And then the man spoke, and the familiar lilt tinting his Hyemi set Saul’s heart aflutter. Not Samaras, but close enough, oh, close enough.  
  
_See me_ , something cried within Saul. _Talk to me, look at me, tell me everything._  
  
It would’ve been simple enough to start a conversation in Ilyigan – even one that didn’t touch on Saul’s own origins, if he so desired. He could play the social game well enough. Mention how cold it was in Hyem this time of the year; that was sure to elicit a sympathetic response. Talk about the food the man was selling. Ah, yes, I too prefer fresh plums to pickled ones. And what are the news from Tezzei, friend?  
  
But something tied his tongue, made it feel leaden and unwieldy in his mouth, as if he’d drunk a cupful of tart wine.  
  
“How much for these, fro?” He asked, in deliberately precise Hyemi. Something like recognition flickered in the merchant’s eyes and was quickly smothered. He wasn’t there to chat to customers.  
  
“One krone.” He thrust his large freckled hands into the glossy mink muff he’d been holding.  
  
_What are you doing, brat?_ Detrich said in Saul’s head. _I gave you this money for a pair of winter socks. Not to throw away on such frivolities as–_  
  
“I’ll take two,” Saul told the merchant, dropping a couple freshly-minted coins onto the darkened wood of the counter.  
  
No collector of antique pottery had ever carried his purchases as carefully as he carried that greased paper bag. All the way through the market and the narrow side-alleys Saul took to avoid the crowds, he cradled his precious burden in his arms and thought about what to do with it.  
  
His first impulse was to hide somewhere under the stairs and eat it all in one go; then lick the stuffing off where it smudged against the paper. No need to tell Mia – certainly no need to tell Detrich.  
  
The tartlets were small enough that he didn’t need anyone keeping an eye on him. It was all his – a little secret indulgence so insignificant that not mentioning it to Detrich barely counted as a lie.  
  
He made his way around the snow-blanketed apple trees in the front garden and rapped his knuckles on the front door.  
  
“No need to pound on the door like you’re a soldier of the Kaiser’s army,” grumbled Mia, fiddling with the brass chain. When she opened up, Saul saw that she had an apron on, a long thick cotton one that looked more like a dress: she’d been cooking.  
  
There were lines of tiredness under Mia’s eyes, thin rosy-brown impressions in her skin.  
  
Before Saul could so much as think about what he was doing, his hands opened the paper bag he was holding seemingly of their own accord.  
  
“This is for you,” he said, in a tone of angered bafflement at his own actions. He took one of the tartlets out with awkward care, trying not to squish the crumbly dough. “It’s Ilyigan. I brought one for Detrich, too.”  
  
Mia’s displeased expression shifted into something complicated. She looked at him for a moment, and then at the tartlet in her hand.  
  
“Have you bought those warm socks, fro Samaren?” She asked him, her voice unusually soft.  
  
Saul ignored that question.  
  
“I only have two,” continued he, “but you can split yours with Alamann if you like. Is Detrich in the study?”  
  
He didn’t wait for her to answer, leaping up the stairs as if afraid that she’d chase after him.  
  
The idea that he was being altruistic never entered Saul’s mind. No; he had an unshakable cold certainty in the ultimate selfishness of every action he’d ever taken. He stood to benefit from this, somehow.  
  
He just hadn’t yet figured out exactly how.  
  
“Saul!” Mia shouted after him. He skidded around the corner and swung the door of Detrich’s study open, heart pounding with his own insolence.  
  
Detrich was sitting at his desk, his left hand resting on the pages of the large tome in front of him. The long tan fingers of the other hand played absently with the end of the short length of scarlet leather tied around his plait. He was obviously quite engrossed in reading, although Saul could see that he’d been taking notes, as well: the ink on the stack of papers next to him was fresh.  
  
At Saul’s entrance Detrich lifted his head and frowned a little, put out by the interruption.  
  
“What is it, lad?” Asked he impatiently.  
  
“Here,” said Saul, plopping the paper bag on the desk in front of Detrich. “I found this in the market. I thought you might like–”  
  
At that point he ran out of words. He’d hoped, somehow, that in the space between meeting Mia and speaking to Detrich he’d figure it all out and be able to announce that he’d bought the tartlets for a good cause. But no such thing had happened. His actions were still inexplicable and his rationale weak.  
  
“It’s Ilyigan,” he repeated, as if that explained something.  
  
Detrich put his book aside ( _Cultural Divergence of Sun Worship Across Continents_ , the cover read in Hyemi script) and opened the bag. He spent a few moments contemplating the contents; then looked back at Saul.  
  
Saul was expecting a harsh scolding; yet there was nothing in Detrich’s expression except surprise.  
  
“Well, you’ve certainly misused my money,” he said, but in a tone of reflection rather than reproach. “But why, in Sun’s name, would you give this to me? You could’ve eaten it at any point and I would be none the wiser.”  
  
Saul had no answer to this question, so instead of responding he just looked angry. Detrich squinted at him with some amusement, his eyes cool as spring-water.  
  
“Very well,” said he, and fished the tartlet out of the bag. Despite Saul’s best efforts, it had become a little lopsided, but the blood red and violet diced plums glistened just as freshly.  
  
Detrich took a careful bite.  
  
Saul watched him eat it and felt an odd visceral satisfaction. This was good. This was right. Better than eating the tartlets himself.  
  
Even if that taste was only a minuscule fraction of what Ilyiga was – of what Saul was – still knowing it made those around him that much less foreign.  
  
Maybe that was the benefit he’d unconsciously sought: to imbue the soul-matter around him with something familiar, if only for a moment. To blur the burning scar of his presence in Hyem, in Detrich’s house.  
  
Or perhaps he’d done it to see the expression on Detrich’s face: soft and strange, almost like gratitude, almost like compassion; almost like–  
  
Well. There was no point in dwelling on such useless fancies.  
  
Whatever Saul’s motive, however, he was once again calmly sure of one thing: he had not acted selflessly.


End file.
